nanny's hands
Nanny came over to America in 1956. She raised nine children. She now has thirty seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. Here are her hands.
nanny's eyes
Two weeks ago, I headed out east on Long Island in my truck, plodding along Sunrise Highway. The air was warm, the sky was blue, and the highway was filled with traffic. And as was expected, there were the numerous bottle necks, where a stray SUV had gone off the road into the woods while the driver was tweeting. I was in a rush to get to a gallery in Sag Harbor, to see a painting exhibition of a fellow artist.
This artist fellow is a friend of mine, is exceptionally talented, and I've really admired him throughout my painting career. We met in Florence, hung out a few times, and have since had a distant, albeit warm, series of exchanges over the past few years. I wove my way through cars and trucks, hoping that I would make it to the gallery showing before it opened.
And as often occurs on long car rides, my mind began to churn with thoughts. Good thoughts. I was so excited to have a month or two of painting in front of me. As the baby is coming, the calendar is cleared, and the summer is free. I can paint. I can paint whatever I want. I can paint my wife and boys on the beach, I can paint my sister playing the piano, I can paint my father in law playing chess. I can paint the landscaper with the tattoos. Maybe the captain of the commercial fishing boat, the Dakota, will pose for a small portrait. His boat is docked down by Whitecap, here in Islip. His face is such an uncommon juxtaposition of weathered, brown skin, and clear, blue eyes. Maybe I can paint the baby who is coming, in Margaret's arms, beside a window. I can paint Dino, the fellow who served twelve years in jail, and has spent the past twenty years working in inmate rehabilitation. Thoughts like these will make an artist drunk with anticipation.
And as the buildings on Sunrise Highway slowly gave way to more and more trees, other thoughts came. Unwelcome thoughts. I remembered the gallery owner who looked at my work, and said "We would like you to be a part of our gallery. But on one condition: no painting pregnant women. That painting would never sell. I don't know why you ever would do that." I recalled the sneer of the man with the pink polo, at the Washington Square Show, who said "What the hell are you doing, painting in Islip?" And the joy of painting gave way to the gloom of careerism. "What am I doing? Why am I in Islip? Why aren't I the one having a show tonight, at this gallery in Sag Harbor? Am I not good enough? Am I too much of a maverick, some stupid cowboy that won't conform, doomed to a life of saddle burns in the plains?" And as the last glow of light disappeared from the tops of the trees, and as the landscape turned silhouette, I chewed the cud of insecurity.
I arrived at the gallery quite late, and was greeted by friends. The paintings were stunning, the show was brilliant, the lights were bright, and I was happy for my friend. He pulled together an outstanding show. I wondered how I might compliment him in such a way that he could be sure that I was sincere in my enthusiasm- because I truly was pleased. I recognized many faces, spoke to many artists that I haven't seen in a long while. I sipped Perrier sparkling water from a plastic cup. The colors sang, the figures dissolved into brushstrokes, and the light emanated from the canvases. But I was disappointed to see that he didn't paint any eyes. Some galleries don't like paintings with eyes. Eyes take the paintings out of the decorative category, and place them into some literary-esque category. Eyes risk narrative, involvement. No eyes anywhere.
The evening was wrapping up, and the after-party was beginning. I'd been to an after-party before, I knew how the deal went. You had to be invited to go upstairs, you couldn't just walk up. Though there are no written rules, the code of inclusion is felt and understood by all in the room. I watched as a bunch of artists made their way up the stairs to the after party. The lights were dimmed, and I was among a handful of artists who were shepherded discreetly onto the sidewalk. Ten minutes or so passed awkwardly. I carried on conversation with one fellow artist, talking about this and that, about purple and green paint. A few last people slipped inside the door of the gallery. Only the other artist and I were left. As I spoke to the artist, he suddenly reached to his pocket, declaring "Woop, text!" He paused. "Oh, Kev, gotta go. Upstairs. Uhh, talk to you later."
I stood alone on the sidewalk. I paused. I was waiting for the blow to hit me, the crushing feeling of being left out, the Rudolph-the-red-nose-never-gets-to-join-in-the-reindeer-games feeling. I paused. I could hear everybody laughing upstairs. I recognized the voices. This was it, that excruciating moment that every child of the nineties feared- I was Screech, and this was Saved by the Bell, and any minute now the sad synthesizer music would begin to play. I paused. Nothing. Crickets chirped. Where was the sigh that accompanied the let down? Why wasn't it here yet? I paused.
And then, I suddenly knew that I didn't belong here anymore. Not at all. I don't mean to say I don't belong in that town, or that I don't belong in that geographic region. This gallery, this gallery owner, this particular scene... it wasn't for me. There are no eyes here. They don't want eyes here. They don't want pregnant women in this gallery. There are those that hold beauty as an existence which is devoid of pain, or aging, or suffering. I used to agree. But my notion of beauty has evolved into something altogether different. And that's all.
Epiphanies come instantly, though the framework for the conclusion may span years, even lifetimes. A sense of relief washed over me like a tide that had been out a long time, and now returned. I half jogged to my truck. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I called Margaret. "How are you, Maggie?" "I'm good, Kev. But I'm having some mild contractions. Try to come home in the next few hours." "I'm coming home now. I'll see you soon." The whole ride home, I listened to Ricky Skaggs bluegrass, and a stream of thoughts rushed into my mind. The canvases I can't wait to begin, the eyes I can't wait to paint.
On the way home, my friend sent a text, apologizing profusely, as he didn't realize the gallery owner had locked me out. As best I could, I tried to assure him that I knew it wasn't his doing, and what's more, I didn't mind. Closed doors have given me much more direction than open doors ever have.
Today, as I bounded up the stairs to the studio, I could hear the chickens clucking in the yard. I set up a large canvas, and placed all of my paints on my palette. I reflected on the painting I was about to begin, that of my grandmother, "Nanny." Nanny has a severe case of Parkinsons, and its effects are so devastating that she is uncomfortable sitting for more than a few minutes. I asked her, two years ago, to sit for a few photographs, holding my newborn Evan. The file has sat unopened for two years, and today I opened it. As Martin Hayes fiddled away in the background, I began to paint my grandmother.
day four
Here's the progress, day four of this still life. And though I know it's redundant, I just love painting the glow of light flowing over the rich varnish of the violin.
with her
When Margaret and I were dating, she asked me one day "What do you want to do with your life?" I told her I wanted to be an artist, but it was unrealistic, as there was no way to do that and raise a family. She paused and said "You can be an artist and raise a family."
Eleven years later, my little wife lay on our bed, exhausted, her very body a cradle for the life within her. A baby in her womb, she lay on the bed, limp with fatigue. Always giving, always loving, always giving. Herself not for herself, her life birthing life. I sketched silently, solemnly, in awe of selflessness, of love.
"With her"
This time is difficult. Wait for me.
We will live it out vividly.
Give me your small hand:
we will rise and suffer,
we will feel, we will rejoice.
------
We are once more the pair
who lived in bristling places,
in harsh nests in the rock.
This time is difficult. Wait for me
with a basket, with a shovel,
with your shoes and your clothes.
------
Now we need each other,
not only for the carnations' sake,
not only to look for honey-
we need our hands
to wash with, to make fire.
So let our difficult time
stand up to infinity
with four hands and four eyes.
-Pablo Neruda, "With her"
"Con ella"
Como es duro este tiempo, esperame:
vamos a vivirlo con ganas.
Dame tu pequenita mano:
vamos a subir y sufrir,
vamos a sentir y saltar.
-----
Somos de nuevo la pareja
que vivio en lugares hirsutos,
en nidos asperos de roca.
Como es largo este tiempo, esperame
con una cesta, con tu pala,
con tus zapatos y tu ropa.
-----
Ahora nos necesitamos
non solo para los claveles,
no solo para buscar miel:
necesitamos nuestras manos
para lavar y hacer el fuego,
y que se atrreva el tiempo duro
a desafiar el infinito
de cuatro manos y cuatro ojos.
-Pablo Neruda, "Con Ella"
chess match
So, I wrangled my father in law and his brother into playing a game of chess, in my studio. I'm satisfied with the first day's work, after about two hours. The fifteen by twelve foot skylight produces such beautiful, overhead, diffused light. When I adjust the louvers correctly, it produces such a pleasant light on light effect, a low contrast which is such a pleasure to paint.
boots and brothers
My one brother lives in Memphis. My other brother lives in Colorado Springs. We used to all work in my dad's spackling company together. I hated spackling, but now that this season of my life is over, I look back on it longingly. I'm not sure, but I think I paint boots when I miss my brothers.
This is the part of the blog where an acoustic guitar starts strumming, James Taylor softly hums, and you get all teary eyed. Then, if you stare at my painting hard and long enough, you may just hear the voice of that narrator from the Wonder Years.
sharon
Here's a two day sketch of a woman I recently met. I began this painting during my last portrait class, and then worked a second day on it, today. It's a simple painting. Perhaps that's why I like it- I could just enjoy color, and light, in the quietest of paintings.
a day with liam
"Happiness makes up for in height what it lacks in length." -Robert Frost
And happiness is having my son Liam spend the morning in the studio with me, drawing as I paint. Sometimes I am in a moment, and it is as if I can hear my future self, straining to return to present self, to simply relive this moment again. Here's a look at some of our works, underway.
Today was the third day of working on this painting. It's a really fun painting to work on. Sometimes I just feel like delighting in the swirling vortex of reflections, it is surely the Escher side of my brain. But as well, this painting has an intentional, metaphorical side to it. It's actually a whimsical poem, of sorts. But the content is not for me to force, as there's nothing worse than a preachy painting- except of course a Rothko. But if I've done my job as the painter, the reader will discover it.
And I confess, Liam is much cooler than me. A Hess truck with a fighter jet on the back. And the second drawing is narrated as follows. "Da da, the guy on the left is me, a boy catching leaves, which are falling from the tree in winter. And that's you and ma ma, and you're happy." My son is obviously well trained in classical anatomy and ecorchet- just look at Margaret's pregnant belly.
what i love
Ok, I know we've all seen this before. But I just really love painting boots. If Chardin could paint onions and dead rabbits a million times over, then I claim the Chardin clause. Some days, I simply paint what I love, no questions asked. During the still life class which I teach, I thoroughly enjoyed working on this tiny, six by ten inch painting, as my students worked away on their own paintings.
